mistake; in Japan an inartistic atrocity. There are several of these about, in out-of-date pot-hats, and tail-coats of the year before last’s cut. Even Kotmasu, who himself is attached to pseudo-European attire, laughs at them. How queer they look!—the pot-hat cum a fringe of black, shining hair beneath its brim, and other really picturesque garments.
We are getting tired, and Mousmé’s natural lust of buying useless things is increasing.
Unfortunately, she has been told I am “one very much rich man.” Kotmasu—who is beginning to pine for the geishas—and I have our arms uncomfortably full of purchases—little lacquer boxes, fantastic hair-combs and pins, silk sashes, a tiny silver tobacco-pipe with tortoises, frogs and tiny lizards scarcely bigger than a pin’s head crawling up the chased stem, boxes of plums preserved in sugar, and
